


I'll Love You in a Thousand Lifetimes

by notcrypticbutcoy



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: (really 6+1 but anyway), 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Malec, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 21:18:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10421970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcrypticbutcoy/pseuds/notcrypticbutcoy
Summary: The first words their soulmates will ever speak to them are marked on the wrists of every person on the planet, and Magnus and Alec are no exception. And across countries and centuries and lifetimes, they will find each other.(i.e. The soulmate AU with reincarnation that nobody asked for)***Or: in which Magnus and Alec are soulmates, memory is a fickle thing, and love will always prevail.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ninwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninwrites/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the wonderful, incredible Malteser24. Happy birthday, darling! I hope you have an utterly fabulous day. (And I'm even posting this in two halves to combat the time zone issue, because I can just tell I'm going to end up posting outside of your birthday in your time zone.) Thank you so much for the last 18 months of friendship, and here's to many, many more. Keep being your brilliant self <3

1.

_1423, an England country village_

Stars glittered high up ahead, twinkling points of light in a sea of infinite darkness. It was cold, wind whipping through the streets and rustling the trees, sending golden brown leaves tumbling to the ground, a carpet of invisible colours underfoot.

Alexander's fingers were wrapped firmly around his brother's. Maxwell was silent beside him, for once, shivering in his thin clothes and too frightened to flood Alexander with his usual stream of inquisitions.

They crossed the road quietly, Alexander's strides longer than his little brother's, so that the boy had to jog to keep up with him, nearly twisting his ankle in a deep track in the mud made by the wheels of a cart and the hooves of a horse in his haste. Alexander wanted to chastise him for being so careless - again - but he didn't. There were more pressing matters.

Ahead, the church came into view, looming high and towering above them. Alexander frequently wondered how on earth they - whoever _they_ were, exactly—the King and all his ministers, he supposed - could afford to build such things when their people were starving.

Behind the impressive structure, the moon sat up among the clouds, casting a milky glow across the world that seemed particularly eerie tonight. Perhaps, he thought, that was merely because it was so late, and so deserted.

"Alec," his brother whispered, tugging at his shirt as Alexander pulled him up the steps and lifted a hand to knock on the heavy oak door. "What if Mama finds out?"

Alexander glanced down at his brother, and crouched down, brushing hair back from his face. "Max," he said, "I know Mama doesn't trust the Brotherhood, but I do. Remember when they helped Jace, and she said they wouldn't? Remember when they gave Isabelle medicine that we couldn't afford? They're going to help you, and it's going to be okay. I promise."

Maxwell stared at him, eyes huge and glistening in the night. "Am I going to die?"

"No," Alexander told him, firmly, and prayed that he wasn't lying. "Of course not."

He kissed his brother's hair, and gripped his shoulder as he rose back up. With a calming breath, he lifted a hand and rapped sharply on the door, thrice.

A bolt slid across, and the ornate door was cracked open, scratching across the cold stone flooring inside the church. Inside, Alexander could see a man, practically his height and just as underfed, but without the slender muscle Alexander was forced to put on by the hard labour of day.

"Yes?" the man asked, voice unyielding. "The Brotherhood is not open to strangers without appointment. Especially not at night. Return in the morning."

"Please," Alexander begged him, throwing out a hand to wrap it around the door before it could be slammed in his face. "Please, let us in. We need you. My brother needs you."

The man paused, looking down at Alexander's hand. He could slam the door, break every bone in his fingers, and Alexander's family would die of starvation without his income. Jonathan couldn't support their family on his own. Not with his newfound soulmate, soon to be his wife. And Isabelle—

"Who are you?" the man demanded. "And what do you want?"

"Alexander," he said, "and my brother, Maxwell. He's sick, and he needs your help, _please_ , I—"

"You're the Lightwood boy," the man said, and his eyes narrowed. Alec didn't blame him. His parents were stark protestors against the Brotherhood, and they had no trouble in making their views known. "We don't welcome your family here."

"Ragnor," a voice chimed from inside, lighter than that of the man glaring at Alec. The swirling mark of his fated on Alexander's wrist burned, abruptly, and he flinched, fingers flexing. It had never done that before. "Let them in. Don't be cruel."

"They're Lightwoods," the man - Ragnor - growled.

"Be reasonable, the child is sick, let them in."

"Be it on your head," Ragnor muttered, but he hauled the door open further, wood screeching against stone tiles, until the gap was wide enough for Alexander to fit through.

Inside, the church was lit up, candles held on enormous golden candelabras burning around the alter and incense alight along the pews, the scent wafting towards them the moment they stepped inside. The ceilings rose up high, intricate patterns carved from smooth stone with rainbows of stain glass glimmering in the windows.

The church was beautiful. They crowded in every Sunday, along with the rest of the village, to attend mass, but like this, with burning candles and the darkness of night on the doorstep, it was a place of reverence.

Kneeling in front of the alter, down at the bottom of the steps leading up, was a man, dressed in long robes, with his head bowed and his eyes closed. Smoke wafted from sticks of incense around him, lying in silver dishes set in a perfect circle around him. He had his hands lifted, palms up, utterly still; Alexander was certain that God was not holding his thoughts. The Brotherhood didn't preach the Bible.

Maxwell pressed close to Alexander, gripping his hand tightly and hiding in his tunic as they both stared at the unmoving man. Half his face was shrouded in shadows, and he was a fair distance away, but regardless, Alexander could tell that he was...different. His skin was dark, the colour of bronze, molten and smooth and unlike anything Alexander had ever seen before.

His wrist burned again, and this time, he twisted his arm so he could look at it. The mark appeared entirely normal, with the same loops and swirls he'd been graced with every day since he'd turned fourteen. But it felt...alive. Tingling. Flowing with energy just waiting to break free.

He didn't understand. So he shook his sleeve down, and refocused his attention on the man, and on his brother beside him.

Abruptly, without opening his eyes, the man extended his hands towards the brothers, and said, voice rich, "Join me."

Maxwell looked up at Alexander, uncertainty in his eyes, and waited for his brother to lead. Alexander nodded, and pulled him forwards, gently. They stepped around the dishes of burning scents, and dropped down in front of the man.

"Give me your hands," he said. "Both of you."

The man smiled, gently, when Maxwell's hand grasped his, small and trembling, the other still locked onto Alexander's. He waited, still and patient, for Alexander to complete the circle.

When their hands touched, the rough and calloused skin of Alexander's palm sliding over the smooth skin of the other man's, his soulmark lit up, bright and fierce on his arm, and Alexander wondered at what kind of magic this was.

He expected some kind of chant, a swirl of magical power, a bolt of lightening outside or an abrupt gust of wind. But there was nothing. Silence, as they held hands within the circle, smoke curling up around them, caressing their clothes and invading their senses.

A soft moan to Alexander's right snapped him out of the trance that the smells and the heat had induced, and his eyes snapped open. He hadn't realised he'd closed them. He dropped hands with the strange man just in time to see his brother's eyelids fluttering as he swayed on his knees.

"There we go," the man said softly, catching Maxwell before he smacked against the floor and lowering him with the utmost gentleness until his head rested on an embroidered cushion pulled from one of the pews. "You'll be fine, little one. Rest, now."

The man turned his eyes - liquid brown and shining with tender sincerity - on Alexander, and he smiled. "You've nothing to fear, I promise you."

Alexander felt anguish clawing at him, because he couldn't lose Max, he couldn't. "My brother, I love him, I can't—" He stopped himself, his mind catching up with the words just spoken, and looked back up at the man, who was staring at him with his lips parted, astonishment clear on his face. "Pardon me, sir?"

"Pardon _me_ , I think," the man said, and shook his head slowly, hand going to wrap around his wrist.

Alexander felt his head spinning, rushing, thoughts scattering like dandelion seeds in a warm September wind, and his wrist, his mark, it was hot, so hot, and he could barely think, he just—

"Here."

The beautiful man with the strange skin and the kind eyes was holding out water, held in a silver goblet undoubtedly worth more than Alexander would earn in a year. He took it with trembling fingers, grateful, and glanced down at the man's exposed wrist, because surely, _surely_ —

_My brother, I love him, I can't_

Alexander inhaled sharply, and his hand shook so hard he couldn't keep his grip on the goblet; it tumbled to the ground, water spilling everywhere.

"Oh, God, no." He reached out to pick the goblet back up, cheeks flushing with heat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—"

"It's alright, darling," the man said, and when Alexander looked up at him, his eyes were trained on Alexander's wrist.

_You've nothing to fear, I promise you._

Their eyes met, and the man smiled, softly. "My name is Magnus Bane."

"Alexander," he managed, weakly, head swimming, the room titling. He didn't know whether that was because of the heat, and the overwhelming scents wafting around him, or whether it was because this gorgeous - but undoubtedly bizarre - man had spoken the words inscribed on his wrist. "Alexander Lightwood."

Brother Bane's eyes held nothing but kindness, although the bewilderment in them was clear. "Stay with your brother," he said. "I'll get you some more water."

Alexander went to protest, because the extra exertion was unnecessary, but the other man stood before he could do more than open his mouth. He left the incense burning, tossing a handful of what looked like seeds onto one, and the smoke changed colour, fading from near-white to blue-grey.

It took Brother Bane mere moments to fetch more water; Alexander barely moved, frozen still and thoughts swirling through his head. Because—

He didn't know what he'd expected, from his fated. His soulmate. The person's whose first words to him he'd carried on his arm for a decade. But he hadn't expected this.

Though he'd hoped, he hadn't really expected a _man_ at all. He'd expected a woman. Because although it happened, although there were people whose life-partners were of the same gender—it wasn't normal. And some frowned upon it. Called it a mistake. An anomaly.

"Here." The silver goblet was pressed into his hand again, the metal cool and smooth, and this time, he managed to grasp it and drink without making a fool of himself.

Brother Bane knelt beside Maxwell in a fluid movement, knees hitting the stone floor without a sound, and brushed hair back from the boy's feverish forehead. His fingertips lingered, pressing against his neck and then his temple, before he sat back.

"He needs to clear the infection from his lungs," he said, looking back to Alexander. "The incense will help. Once he's breathing properly, you can take him home."

Alexander swallowed, and made some reply of gratitude. He couldn't help but wonder whether they were going to address the glaring obstacle between them. They'd said the words on each other's wrists.

" _Alexander_." Brother Bane's voice, heavy with emphasis as he spoke Alexander's name, snapped him from his thoughts. "Are you alright?"

"I—" He glanced down, to where he had his hands clasped in his lap, and met the other man's eyes a little helplessly. "I don't know, Bro—"

"Magnus. Call me Magnus, please." When Alexander inclined his head in acquiescence, he spoke again, gently. "Did you expect a woman, perhaps?"

Alexander swallowed. "Yes," he admitted, "but I didn't _want_ a woman. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense," Magnus assured him, and smiled. It was an expression saturated with compassion, empathy and kindness shining in his eyes, and Alexander's breath caught. "Are you afraid?"

"A little."

In lieu of replying, Magnus extended a hand, much like he had before. But now, the invitation was not a requirement, and the sharp lines of his hands were softer, blurry around the edges. He had beautiful hands.

"It's okay to be afraid," Magnus said, and clasped Alexander's hand in his, folding their fingers together. "I'm afraid, too."

Alexander blinked. " _You're_ afraid of _me_?"

"A little," Magnus replied, and the twitch at the corners of his lips told Alexander that he was being teased, at least a touch. "But I trust that Mother Nature doesn't make mistakes, here."

Magnus' finger traced over the inside of Alexander's wrist, and he had to hold back a shiver at the caress, goosebumps rising along his arm. Holding Magnus' hand like this made him feel touch-starved, like he hadn't known what it felt like to feel another human being's skin brush his until now. It was warm, heat radiating out through his body from where they were joined, and his every focus circulated around the singular point of contact.

"I'll stay," Magnus said, after several seconds of silence, during which their eyes didn't break away. "I'll stay with your brother, tonight, so you can rest. You look exhausted."

"I think it's— I think it's the smells." He let out a sheepish little laugh. "I'm sorry. That sounds rude of me."

"No." Magnus' smile shifted—it widened a little, the corners of his lips curling up more on one side than the other, cheeks lifting and eyes creasing at the edges. "No, they have that affect on lots of people."

"Including my brother, clearly."

"Yes." Magnus squeezed Alexander's hand, and followed the flickering of his fated's gaze back to the little boy laid out across the floor. Someone had thrown a blanket across him - Magnus, presumably - but Alexander hadn't noticed when. "I promise, Alexander, that barring any tragedies, your brother will be fine. I've healed similar sicknesses before."

"I don't know how to repay you," he confessed, watching the stuttering rise and fall of his brother's chest with his throat tight. "We haven't got any money, or property, or possessions of much value."

"I have an idea," Magnus said. "You could come back tomorrow evening. Or the next night. Or the one after. Or all three, if you'd like. Come back and see me."

The nervous pleasure of anticipation had made Magnus' eyes sparkle, lips twitching in an undeniably tempting manner as he clearly tried to stop himself grinning. It made Alexander's heart twist in an unfamiliar, but not altogether unpleasant, manner.

"I'd like that," Alexander said, ducking his head a little, shyness overtaking him. He peered up at Magnus from under his lashes. "I'll come. If I can. If Max is well enough."

"If he's not, bring him with you, and I'll see what I can do."

After that, they didn't say very much at all. Magnus stood, telling Alexander to steal another prayer cushion or two from the pews, and then he disappeared.

Alexander settled himself beside Maxwell. Part of him was loathe to fall asleep. Magnus had gone - although something innate in Alexander's mind was sure that he'd return - and Maxwell was still sick, even if he was asleep. What happened if he woke up, coughing and choking and unable to breathe like he did sometimes, and Alexander was asleep?

It took the whisper of robes against the hard floors and the sight of Magnus tucking a second blanket around his brother for Alexander to relax enough to let his eyes close. Magnus was so gentle. So kind.

(Although something in him thought that Magnus was probably also exceptionally strong-willed and fierce. He didn't look like the kind of man who'd allow anybody to push him around. Certainly, the position he'd held when Alexander had first seen him had radiated power.)

"Relax," a voice whispered in his ear, breath stirring his hair. "Relax. It's okay. I'm staying, and I'll watch your brother. You can sleep."

Something settled around his shoulders, the material a little scratchy but soft, and Alexander burrowed into it.

"Thank you," he murmured, cracking his eyes open to look at Magnus.

Warm lips brushed his forehead, and a shiver - the good, hot, pleasant kind of shiver - ran through him. His soulmark felt like it was glowing, like sunlight spilling across open water at dawn.

"You're very welcome."

***

2.

_The City of London, 1576 (during the reign of Elizabeth I)_

A tall, elegant woman with her hair pinned up and jewels painstakingly sewn onto her sweeping dress was gliding across the hall. She smiled demurely, as society dictated she should, and greeted friends and acquaintances and those she was expected to pay her due respects to in high society.

Magnus felt the corners of his mouth tug down as he followed her with his eyes, praying that he was sufficiently obscured behind the vast array of intoxicated nobility talking in obnoxiously loud tones. His grip on his wine tightened, and he took a sip; it wasn't particularly nice. He'd been told it was imported from France, but if that was true, and this was the best alcohol high society England had to offer, he thought he might just have to catch a ship back to Asia.

"Your destined is here," Lady Catarina Loss told him, sidling up to him with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Hadn't you better go and say hello?"

Magnus rolled his eyes at her. Catarina had been his reluctant companion in his strange life journey across half the world, making his money in cloth trade and creating fashion pieces that he could sell to the higher classes. Until, abruptly, he became of the higher classes, in England, treated as part of the gentry. And, as the Queen of England was currently dressed in one of his designs, it was rumoured that he'd have a title by the time the Thames next froze over.

"I would never compliment an Englishwoman's jewels immediately upon introduction," Magnus said, forcing himself not to scoff for the sake of propriety. "That's uncivil. And Lady Belcourt most certainly did not say _are you alright?_ when we met. That's far too generous."

Catarina's lips quirked upwards, eyes sparking with amusement. "Well, after her drunken improprieties last time the two of you met, I'd put nothing past her."

Magnus shuddered. "It's not her, Catarina. I know it's not. Good god, can you imagine?"

"Well, she's got someone's words on her wrist."

"Not mine," Magnus said, and tipped the remainder of his frankly revolting wine down his throat. He set his glass down on a nearby mahogany table, elegantly engraved with intricate designs that must have cost a fortune to create, and ran a fingertip over the words scrawled on his wrist. That sweeping mess certainly wasn't Camille Belcourt's handwriting. "It's so...frustrating."

"Hm?" Catarina turned to look at him, where they had been standing side by side, staring out into the sea of over-rich nobles. "What is?"

"My memory. Everything from Before is so fuzzy."

"Because you've only had one or two cycles. The more you have, the more the memories stick. Trust me." She winked at him. "Four lives in, and more fun every time."

"Remind me how Ancient Egypt was, darling?" Magnus joked, and Catarina rolled her eyes at him. "I think - I _think_ \- I had my first cycle without her. Or him. Whichever. My second with. I just- I just can't _remember_."

"Magnus, good gracious, calm yourself," Catarina said, looking slightly alarmed. "You should be enjoying tonight. The Queen of England, arguably the most powerful and prestigious woman in the world, is dressed in your fabrics, showcasing your talents. This is your night. Not the night to be worrying about past lives and your fated."

It was rather ironic, really, that a mere few minutes later, Camille appeared before them, a sparkling crystal glass in one hand and the other waving and gesturing in the air, rings and chains adorning her fingers.

"Mr Bane," Camille said, with a horribly coquettish smile that made Magnus' stomach turn unpleasantly. "How do I find you, this evening? In good spirits?"

"Wonderful spirits, thank you," Magnus told her, forcing a smile onto his lips while wishing for the sweet release of some of that awful morbid poetry that the English seemed to adore. "And yourself?"

"All the better for having the pleasure of your conversation," she said, and Catarina turned away, shoulders shaking in her gorgeous attire for the night: it was tasteful, understated, elegant, and she looked far nicer than Camille did, in Magnus' absolutely impartial opinion.

After entertaining Camille for what felt like a lifetime, Magnus excused himself, on the pretence of heading outside to smoke. (He didn't smoke, but Camille wasn't to know that. Every other well bred gentleman in the country was apparently acquiring the habit.)

As Magnus turned, twisting his body to slide between two groups of rowdy English nobles, both roaring with laughter, he found himself knocking shoulders with someone, hard enough to make his eyes sting.

Magnus ground his teeth together, and swore in the privacy of his own head.

"Oh, Christ! I am so sorry, sir, are you alright?"

Something in Magnus' chest twisted inexplicably, and the mark on his wrist felt suddenly warm as he turned to look at the man he'd managed to walk into.

He was _tall_ , was the first thing Magnus noticed. It wasn't often that Magnus had to tilt his head up or lift his gaze to look someone in the eye, but this man was clearly some kind of human-giant hybrid. He was exceptionally handsome, with a concerned look etched onto his face, and...

Something about him felt achingly familiar.

"I'm fine, thank you. Don't worry," Magnus assured him, and he felt his brows draw together when the other man's lips parted. His mark burned hotter, almost scalding, as though trying to force him to stop staring at this man, stop trying to work out what it was about him that made Magnus' pulse trip a little.

_I am so sorry, sir, are you alright?_

Magnus' mind caught up to the present moment, and he felt himself freeze all over, eyes going wide.

But the man - the beautiful man with such shocking dark hair and expressive eyes like churning seas and molten lava - was faster—even if he stuttered. Adorably.

"I— I'm sorry, I— Did you—?"

"I think so," Magnus said, and he felt his lips quirk up, making him appear far more nonchalant than he felt. "Shall we take a step outside?"

"Yes." The man looked relieved, the anxiety bleeding from his face at the suggestion. "Yes, that sounds like a good idea."

Magnus led the way through the people to the side door, and held it open for his fated, who blushed prettily, and murmured his thanks. Magnus tried to hide his smile. He was enamoured, and he didn't even know - or remember, he supposed, was the more appropriate term - the man's name.

Outside, the evening air of summer felt warm as it blew across Magnus' face. England had seemed so cold when he'd first stepped off a disease-ridden ship, four years ago, but he'd acclimatised quickly, even if Catarina hadn't. He thought he'd been in England before this cycle, although he couldn't quite pin down the memories. They were like smoke dispersing through his brain, without enough substance to grab at, but just visible enough to taunt him.

A church. He remembered a church, and long robes, and he was quite sure Ragnor Fell had saved his life at some point, but the Ragnor of this lifetime was long dead and buried in Spanish earth, so he couldn't ask.

Beside him, the pretty man with the pretty dark eyes let out a shaky breath, and curled his fingers into the palms of his hands. Magnus glanced across at him, in time to see his throat bob and his shoulders hunch in, as though he carried the weight of the world across his back.

"Are you alright?" Magnus asked, and the words made his fated smile, just a little.

"I'm sorry," he replied, and Magnus wanted to say _no, no, don't be sorry, don't ever be sorry,_ but he forced himself not to. Not everybody was quite so obsessed with love and so desperate to find their soulmate in every lifetime as Magnus was. "I'm fine. I just... I wasn't expecting this."

"Were you expecting a woman?" Magnus' voice was gentle, accommodating, because most people weren't ready to have someone of their own gender speak the words marked on their wrists.

And he felt like he'd asked that question before.

"I don't know." The man exhaled. "I don't know what I was expecting."

"I'm Magnus Bane," Magnus told him, because he was desperate to learn this stunning man's name. Maybe if he found out what he was called, he'd start to remember Before.

"I know. Everyone's talking about you, in there." He jerked his head into the hall they'd just vacated. "You're their new shiny gem. I'd be careful. They keep calling you _exotic_." He rolled his eyes at the term.

Magnus' eyebrows hitched up. "Oh?"

"Mm. They're like vultures. I'd know. I've spent all my life listening to them gossip." He paused. "My name is Alexander Lightwood."

 _Alexander_.

Oh, yes, that was achingly familiar.

"Of course you are," Magnus found himself murmuring, softly, and he smiled a little. "You look dashing, darling."

Alexander's face positively lit up, returning Magnus' smile tenfold, lips parting to expose a row of infuriatingly straight teeth, the corners of his eyes creasing adorably. He looked brighter than the glow of an Indian summer sun, and he made Magnus' heart race.

He could feel memories beginning to trickle through his mind. Memories of a church, of Ragnor opening a heavy oak door and snarking at a man whose voice was saturated with desperation, of a warm hand on his and a sick little boy.

He remembered soft lips on his - for the first time? - as they stood before an alter, entirely alone in the silence of a church at night. He remembered great, heaving sobs muffled against his neck, caused by the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who carried far too much of everyone else's weight, and occasionally crumpled beneath it. He remembered defiance in those endless eyes on a Sunday morning, as fingers curled tight around his.

He remembered. It was fuzzy, dim, disjointed and fractured, but god, he remembered Alexander. Not enough. He couldn't remember enough. But he remembered so much more than he had.

"Thank you," Alexander said, quietly, and pleased embarrassment tinted his cheeks rouge. "I, um." He laughed, sheepishly, and it made Magnus' chest tighten with fondness. "I don't know what to say. I'm not very good at small talk. I never have been."

Magnus grinned, and winked at him. "I assure you, I can talk enough for both of us."

They fell silent for a moment, just gazing at each other, and then Alexander dropped his gaze, colour darkening his pale cheeks again. Amusement welled in Magnus as he watched Alexander's eyes flit to and fro, from the ground and across to Magnus, several times, as though he was trying not to stare. He wasn't sure whether to tell Alexander that he was more than welcome to stare as much as he liked, or whether that was too much, too soon.

"Sorry," Alexander muttered, when he realised that Magnus had noticed his dilemma. "I didn't— I didn't mean to— I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Magnus told him, sincerely, and reached out to touch his elbow lightly. "It's alright."

"You, uhm." He licked across his lower lip. "You look beautiful."

And god, if that didn't make his heart stutter. "Thank you."

They ended up walking along the banks of the River Thames, arms hooked together, Alexander laughing, shyly at first and then loudly, shamelessly, while Magnus told him about himself, about how he'd made his way to England over many years, all the way from Indonesia.

The further they walked, the closer Magnus drifted to his fated. He found himself pressed against Alexander's side, fingers skimming his wrist absently, where the words he'd spoken were forever marked into this gorgeous man's skin.

They stopped halfway across a bridge, stars glittering high in the sky above them, and they turned to face each other, smiles shining on their lips.

"I don't know whether to believe half of what you've told me," Alexander said, mischief twinkling in his eyes, the fingers of one hand tangled with Magnus'. "It's absurd."

Magnus scoffed. "Oh ye of little faith. I'm entirely serious. Well. Maybe not about the blue pirates. But about everything else."

Alexander's smile stretched impossibly wider, and he laughed softly. "You're something else."

"Mm." Magnus tipped his face up, and brushed the backs of his fingers over Alexander's cheek; the other man shivered. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant to be." A hand found his waist, and tugged him a little closer. "Magnus, would it be wholly improper of me to kiss you?"

And if his name falling from Alexander's lips wasn't the best thing he'd heard all night, accompanied by such a wondrous question, Magnus didn't know what was.

"Undoubtedly," Magnus said, leaning into him, breath washing gently over Alexander's face. "But I think I would be agreeable to such a course of action, Lord Lightwood."

"God, don't call me that," Alexander said, laughing as his eyes fluttered shut. "It sounds ridiculous."

"If you insist, Alexander," Magnus murmured, and then their lips were brushing, oh so softly, at first, and then firmer. Alexander gasped between kisses that grew more heated with each meeting of their lips, pulling Magnus harder against him like he was starving.

They remained locked together, mouths hot against each other for a long, burning moment, before Alexander pulled back gradually, slowing their kisses until their mouths were barely touching, hot breaths shared between them in the still night air. A hand rested lightly on Magnus' cheek, and Magnus leant into the touch, heart swelling. This man, here, touching him, kissing him—this man was his fated, his soulmate, the man whose words and handwriting he bore on his wrist, the man whom he'd loved, oh so long ago, in another lifetime that he couldn't quite remember, not yet, but could sense, taste, _feel_ , deep in his soul.

"I'll confess I wasn't expecting to be kissed tonight," Magnus whispered, as he opened his eyes to gaze up the few inches between their heights and look at Alexander. "But I'm not complaining."

"My mother would be disgusted at my behaviour," Alexander said, lips twitching. "Gallivanting off with my soulmate, with no courting and no introductions and no seeking the approval of my parents."

"I must be a bad influence."

Alexander's chest vibrated with laughter, eyes so warm as he looked at Magnus that Magnus wouldn't have felt cold even if it had been a winter's night. "That must be it," he agreed. "Although I don't think my mother will be terribly happy with me anyway."

"Oh?" Magnus arched an eyebrow. He was very aware of the fact that they were still standing in public, with their arms around each other, Alexander's hand cradling his cheek. It was an intimate position for anybody to be in, but it would be doubly frowned on from two men. "Why not?"

"Well," Alexander said, some of the happiness fading from his face. "You're a man, for starters. And you're not English. You're _foreign_."

"Shocking," Magnus said, deadpan, and Alexander tilted his chin up to kiss his forehead. "But you don't care?"

"If our queen hasn't outlawed any of it, why should I object? She is our leader and our example, after all."

The words were wry, and Alexander's mouth twisted as he spoke them. Magnus wondered whether it was the argument he'd used when discussing the matter with somebody else.

"Good," Magnus said lightly. "Now, might I make a perfectly scandalous suggestion?"

Alexander grinned at him. "Please do."

"May I walk you home, and then call on you uninvited tomorrow morning?"

"I think I can accommodate that," Alexander agreed, with a smile that would melt the heart of the coldest man. "But consider yourself invited. By me. If anybody tries to make you leave, tell them to find me."

"Alexander," Magnus said, and kissed his cheek. "That's very sweet."

A flush covered Alexander's face, and he took a little step back, putting some space between them. "Come on," he said. "If you're going to walk me home, let's go before anyone from that awful party demands us back."

"Your wish is my command, darling," Magnus said, and hooked their arms together again, pressing up close this time without hesitation.

***

3.

_1735, The Dutch East Indies (Indonesia)_

Magnus had seen upwards of a thousand people passing through his master's house, intent on discussing business and paying absolutely no mind to the slaves and servants forced into submission. They were the same, all of them: blind to the sufferings of the people around them, because it was _normal_.

It was bloody disgusting, was what it was, but Magnus didn't get to have opinions. He hadn't even been paid until his mother had died two years ago and left him enough money to buy his freedom from slavery, if not his freedom from the house—he certainly wasn't allowed to speak, let alone express thoughts so far out of the realm of normality that they'd probably give most of these European morons an aneurism.

Did it really matter that his skin was darker than theirs? Was something so inconsequential really reason to treat him like dirt?

So when he'd been ordered to wait on the two men - his master and his master's newest potential business partner - he hadn't had much choice in the matter. He also hadn't given it much thought. It was better than scrubbing in the kitchens, or doing heavy work out in the fields.

He'd nearly dropped the tray of bread and soup when he'd walked in. Because the man - that man, with shockingly dark hair and such beautiful eyes - stirred memories in the back of his mind, and made the mark on his wrist burn hot.

That stupid mark.

_Thank you._

What kind of useless clue was that? _Thank you._ Magnus had probably heard those words from a hundred people's lips in his life. They weren't special words.

But this man, whoever he was—he was important. Magnus could tell. Catarina, who'd been working in the kitchens for as long as he'd been forced to work in this awful place, kept telling him that memories from Before became easier to hold onto with each cycle, and that there were always triggers, things and places and people that would spark remembrance.

This man certainly did that. Magnus knew his name. He _knew_ he knew his name, somewhere in the back of his mind. He knew he'd met him, Before. The memory just wouldn't quite solidify in his mind, liquefying into something unrecognisable every time he got close.

"Hurry up," his master snapped, as Magnus circled the table, clearing away the plates and leftover food from the first part of their meal. It was such a waste, and it was so, so unfair that they weren't allowed to eat it. Magnus had always snuck some of this food to the children and women struggling to survive, but he had to be careful he wasn't caught.

Magnus didn't reply, because he wasn't allowed to, but he ducked his head, eyes remaining fixed on the table while he swallowed the retorts he wanted to spit out.

"Thank you," a soft, accented voice - American, maybe? - said, when Magnus picked up the china at the other end. He chanced a glance up, and saw the man giving him a small smile, eyes kind when they met his.

Magnus swallowed, and nodded his acknowledgement. The master of the house barked another order from the other end of the table, and Magnus rolled his eyes. The dark-haired man pressed his lips together, forming a tight, unhappy line, but he didn't say anything.

Why would he? Beautiful people who were a little kinder than the rest had always been Magnus' weakness, and they were his downfall every time.

It wasn't until the end of their meal that disaster struck. While Magnus, assisted by Catarina, who kept sneaking glances at their guest, delivered scalding hot tea to the table, their master's elbow knocked against one of the porcelain antiques placed in the centre of the table for aesthetic purposes.

With quick reflexes, Magnus lurched sideways to grab the priceless item before it tumbled to the floor and shattered; as he did so, his wrist bumped against the edge of the table, causing the teapot to tip sideways and roll along the table towards their visitor.

He heard a hiss of pain, and his head snapped round, heart thudding in fear at the thought of that tea dripping onto the master of the house, because God, he and Catarina both would be dead, but—

" _Jancuk_ , I'm so sorry!" Magnus set the salvaged item back down on the table with a bang, and reached for one of the embroidered napkins in a desperate attempt to salvage the damage.

But the man merely shook his head, taking the napkin from Magnus' fingers with a tight smile and a bizarre, indescribable expression of mixed bewilderment and disbelief in his eyes. He pressed it against the tea-sodden leg of his trousers, and said, "It's alright, I promise. No harm done."

"Useless, _cukimai_ ," the master of the house sneered. "Queer and useless."

Their guest frowned. "I don't think that's necessary, Mr Morgenstern."

Morgenstern rolled his eyes. "Why do you care?"

"I'm not a fan of slavery. There's no need to be so rude."

"He's not my slave."

"Oh?" The man arched an eyebrow. "You wouldn't know, from the way you treat him."

Catarina pulled Magnus out of the room before he could make a bigger fool of himself, and the voices of the two men rose in volume as they hurried down the corridor.

Two days later, while the sun was setting, there was a knock on his bedroom door, and a voice that really shouldn't have been as instantly recognisable as it was said, "Magnus?"

Magnus' brows creased together, cutting lines into his forehead as he rose to open the door. How on earth did the master's business guest know his name?

"I'm sorry," the man said, immediately upon Magnus opening the door. He had a sheepish look on his face, and a nervous sort of energy about him, hands twisting together, fingers restless. He seemed so different to the man Magnus had observed negotiating over dinner—he seemed younger, more relaxed, a little more honest, as though he didn't feel like he had to behave with quite the same level of infallible civility and decorum. "I know I shouldn't be here, but I– I had to see you. It's your life, and it's your choice, and god knows nobody on earth could ever stop you doing what you want to, least of all some pigeon-livered ratbag like Morgenstern, but if you want to, if you- if you'd..."

He faltered, probably at Magnus' look of slack-jawed incomprehension. What on earth was he on about? And why exactly was he here, in the servants' quarters? Why was he paying Magnus the time of day?

He exhaled, looking suddenly deflated. "You don't remember. Shit. I— Shit. Um." He swallowed, cheeks fascinatingly red, and said, "May I– May I come in?"

"Of course, sir," Magnus said, stepping to one side to allow the man into his small bedroom. It was practical rather than luxurious, out of necessity. It wasn't like he had very much money, although he had enough - just about - to keep himself more comfortable than most of the people working in the house.

The man wrinkled his nose, and indignation welled in Magnus: just because he could afford whatever lavish items he liked didn't mean—

"You don't need to call me that," he said, and the anger bled out of Magnus almost instantly. "It sounds ridiculous."

Magnus' lips parted, the mark on his wrist burning hot once again in this man's presence, because those words, from those lips, gave him a distinct feeling of déjà vu.

"Alexander?" Magnus whispered, taking a half step forwards, hand reaching out towards him without thought.

The man - _Alexander_ \- whirled around, and a bright smile spread across his face.

"You do remember," he said, eyes filled with such warmth that Magnus couldn't breathe.

"I—" Magnus inhaled deeply, trying to reconcile the man he'd witnessed with the man who featured in his dreams, the man was sure he'd _loved_ , Before. He felt unsteady, like the room was spinning and his world was tilting so quickly it blurred, and he couldn't focus on what he was turning towards. "I don't know."

"Hey." Fingers brushed the back of his hand, the touch grounding him enough to open his eyes. He hadn't even realised he'd closed them, but he found himself looking right at Alexander, who was watching him with concern in his eyes, a mere few inches in front of him where he had been by the window. "It's alright. Look."

Alexander slipped his expensive suit jacket off, dropping it carelessly on the floor of Magnus' bedroom, and shook back the sleeve of his loose white shirt to expose the vulnerable skin of his wrist to Magnus' scrutiny. And there, on pale skin— _Jancuk, I'm so sorry!_

Magnus lifted his eyes to stare up at Alexander. "You– You mean– Oh, gods, you _are_. How could I not remember?" He lifted trembling fingers to touch Alexander's cheek, and his fated let out a shaky breath the moment their skin touched. His soulmark felt hot, tingling, but it was pleasant this time, comforting and gentle and warm rather than scorching and bordering on painful.

A warm palm covered his hand, fingers sliding into the spaces between his and holding their hands against Alexander's face. Magnus' chest rose and fell heavily. It was so overwhelming. This was his fated, his soulmate, his Alexander, and he could feel memories unlocking in his mind, bursting forth with every passing second, but he didn't want to examine them now. He wanted to remain in this perfect present.

"How?" Magnus whispered. "How didn't I realise? When you said—"

"Thank you?" Alexander smiled wryly. "I imagine you've had plenty of people say that to you."

The tight band of anxiety around his lungs began to ease, and Magnus felt one corner of his mouth curl up. "Less than you'd imagine, I assure you. That _pigeon-livered ratbag_ certainly doesn't say it very often."

Alexander laughed at that, softly, embarrassment making his cheeks turn pink. He looked down at their shoes—or, at least, his shoes and Magnus' bare feet. "I shouldn't have called him that. It was inappropriate."

"Oh, no, darling, you got it exactly right."

"Magnus, I—" He exhaled, and dropped their hands down so they were intertwined between them, but no longer touching his face. "I have no wish to tell you what to do, or to overstep my boundaries, but I wondered if you wanted– if you wanted to come back to America. With me."

Magnus stared at him, heart pounding suddenly, tattooing forceful patterns of uncertainty against his ribcage. "Back to America?" he repeated. "With...you? When?"

"Our boat departs tomorrow." Alexander bit down on his lower lip, and it was horribly enticing. "I live in New York. I- I don't know what kind of education you've had, but you could get a job - a good job - or you could go to college, or you could- God, you could do whatever you like."

"What do you do?"

"Me? I'm ruining my father's company for him." Abruptly, Alexander grinned, carefree and boyish and so beautiful, and Magnus' chest ached to make him look like that again, every single fucking day. "Like I said to Mr Morgenstern, I don't like slavery. My father ran a huge, powerful company built on it in America, exploiting slaves from Africa. The first thing I did when I took over was free them all and offer them jobs." He shrugged. "I had help. My brother, and his fated, and my sister, they're very...forward-thinking. They opened my eyes to how awful it is."

"What does your company do, then?" Magnus asked, intrigued.

"Boring financial garbage." Alexander waved a hand dismissively. "But we're using the profit to try to bring down some of the big slave traders in Africa. There are movements building in Britain, too, big ones, and we're working with them. My sister found out about the Dutch slavery in Asia." He shrugged. "Here I am."

Magnus thought of his mother, and thought of all the horrors she'd been forced to live through, and he thought of all the young girls and boys - and the not-so-young men and women - in Morgenstern's household that suffered, and he said, slowly, "If I came to New York, could I help you?"

Alexander blinked, clearly a little taken aback, but he nodded. "Yes. Of course you could. It would be helpful, actually, to have someone who'd experienced some of it first hand."

Catarina's face flashed in his mind. "And I could come back here? If I wanted to?"

"I'm sure you know that it's not easy, travelling long distances, and it's not fast, but yes. If we can generate the money to work here, too, we'd have to come back sometimes."

"Mr Morgenstern won't let me go, though," Magnus told him, because there was no good hoping for things that couldn't be. Maybe, this time, he and Alexander were just too different, from backgrounds that contrasted too much, for them to have a happy ending in this cycle. "It's impossible."

"If you want to come, I assure you, there won't be any problems. But you don't have to." Alexander ducked his head to catch his eye more fully, straight-on. "Really, you don't have to."

"I've only just found you," Magnus said. "How could I not?"

"I'll find you again. I'll come back. Hell, I'll leave you my address and you can come and find me, if you really want to. You won't condemn yourself to never seeing me again if you decide to stay here, I swear."

"I want to come." Magnus delighted in the way that made Alexander pause, lips slightly parted, staring at Magnus with wide eyes. "I want to come with you, and I want to work with you, and I want to go to college."

Alexander smiled, bright, blinding, beautiful, and took a step back towards the door, holding out a hand for Magnus to take. "Then let's go."

"There's something I need to do first," Magnus said, and, before his fated could open his gorgeous mouth to ask, Magnus took his hand and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 coming in about eighteen hours ;) 
> 
> Side note regarding the couple of Indonesian words Magnus uses in part 3 — I have absolutely no knowledge of Bahasa Indonesian, but I did some extensive Googling beyond Google translate to find them, so I hope they're accurate. If you speak the language and know I've made some horrible mistake, let me know! (Also, for anyone who didn't infer from the context and was wondering, they're all just various swear words.)
> 
> Happy birthday again to the ever-wonderful Malteser24 -- much love, darling <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy part 2! (Quick warning for some homophobic language.)

4.

_1821, London_

Alec was pretty damn convinced he was going to die.

He hadn't even wanted to be at this stupid ball his mother had insisted he and his siblings all attend. It was one of those ostentatious things, designed purely to flaunt the wealth and status of the Morgensterns, and Alec had no time for it.

And, much as he liked and admired Lydia Branwell, he and she both knew all too well that the words on each other's wrists had not been their first words to each other. Their parents, on the other hand, were choosing to ignore that fact.

(Alec suspected it had something to do with the fact that Lydia's words had been spoken by his sister.)

So he really would much rather have been at home reading, or denting the obscenely large pile of documents he had to go through, or out riding through the rain-soaked streets towards the beautiful, open planes of the countryside.

Instead, he was being backed against a brick wall in a narrow alleyway somewhere near St. Paul's Cathedral by three men who were all brandishing guns.

"Cough up," one of them spat, jabbing his gun up against Alec's ribs, "and maybe we'll let you go."

"I don't have any money with me," Alec told them, a little desperately, because it was true. He hadn't exactly planned on needing any. He had his hands up, palms forwards, leaning away from the rancid stench of death and decay floating off all three men.

"Right," another of the men said, sneering at him. "You're a Lightwood, you've got money to burn, you little bitch."

"Good god, search me! Search my pockets! I don't have anything!"

The third man, who was twisting his gun between his fingers, wrinkled his nose. "Wouldn't put my hands on a dirty fag like you."

Alec choked. "Excuse me?"

"You 'eard." The first man pressed his gun harder against Alec's chest, right over his heart, and leant in close so his foul-smelling breath washed over Alec's face, infiltrating his nostrils and making him gag. "Now give us something to sell, _queer_ , or we'll blow your rich little brains out so they splatter across the street, you hear me?"

"What do you want, my bloody jacket?" Alec snapped, because it was the most expensive item on his person. "Take it."

"What do we think, boys?" the first man asked, raising his eyebrows. "Good enough?"

The third man scoffed. "Nah. We can do better than that off a fuckin' Lightwood."

As the first man glanced over his shoulder to look at his friend, distracted for just a moment, Alec saw his opportunity. He brought his fist up, and his knuckles collided hard with the side of the man's jaw. A sickening crunch filled the air, and the man screamed in pain.

"You little bugger!" he hollered, reaching out to grab Alec with an enormous fist, but Alec ducked, faster, and swerved between the second and third men to dart down the alleyway.

Dirty rainwater splashed at his trousers as he ran, adrenaline flooding through his veins. It was freezing, but he didn't notice the frigid air penetrating his clothes and biting at his skin.

"Shoot him!" one of the men roared from behind him.

Alec could hear the pounding of footsteps on his heels, and he knew he needed to outsmart them. He was tall, and fast, but those men were huge, and there were three of them against one of him. He couldn't outrun them forever, especially when they had four guns between them.

Taking a chance, he skidded to a stop and lurched sideways down an even smaller alleyway, this one darker, so far from any gas lamps along the street that it was nearing pitch black, lit only by the full moon shining bright overhead.

 _Shit. Oh, no, no, no_.

The alleyway ended with a tall brick wall backing onto someone's house—or, rather, several someones' house, because Alec was quite sure that in this neighbourhood there would be at least three families in a house like that.

He slowed, breath coming out in misty puffs in front of him, and turned to face his pursuers.

They were smirking, all of them. The first man had blood dripping down his face where Alec had punched him; the sight drew his attention to the fact that his knuckles were throbbing painfully.

"Got you," the first man said, lip curling in a cruel smirk and he tightened his grip on his gun. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."

"Actually," said a smooth, deadly voice from the other end of the alleyway, "I'm really not sure you are."

The three men spun, and Alec's eyes snapped behind them to where a man stood, tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding power. He was dressed in a fitted suit of dark blue with a turquoise cravat wound around his throat and his hair styled high atop his head. A revolver rested in his hands, elegantly engraved along the grip, barrel unmoving as he held the gun steady.

"Duck, pretty boy," he said, not taking his wild, glinting eyes off the three men.

Alec barely had time to react before shots rang out. His knees smacked against the hard damp stone of the alleyway floor, and he threw his arms up over his head on instinct as though attempting to shield himself from stray bullets.

There were shouts, and grunts, and a scream, and Alec couldn't tell the difference between the shots his saviour was firing and the bullets flying from the guns of the thieves who wanted money he didn't have.

Then, abruptly, there was silence.

Alec lifted his head, lowering his hands, and straightened up out of his crouch slowly. At the end of the alleyway, the man stood, mouth curled up at one corner as he surveyed the fallen men at his feet, blood mixing with rainwater and trickling across the cobbled pavement. He raised the smoking muzzle of the revolver to his lips, and blew, before his eyes flickered up to Alec.

" _Magnus_?" Alec choked out, when their eyes met, disbelief colouring his voice. His soulmark - _Duck, pretty boy_ \- was warm, the blood in his wrist sizzling, but it wasn't painful.

"Well, hello, Alexander," Magnus said, still smirking, gun held enticingly lay a mere inch from his lips. He had make-up on, dark kohl lining his eyes and powder coating his cheeks, lips shining in a way that surely couldn't be natural, and it only accented the aura of dangerous power oozing from him with every breath.

And, good god, if it wasn't the most attractive thing Alec had ever seen in his life.

"At least I remember you, this time," Magnus continued, sauntering forwards, gun falling lazily to his side. "Catarina was right, it seems. My memory improves with every cycle."

"I– I don't– How?"

"How do you fire a gun?" Magnus raised an eyebrow, and held the weapon up for Alec's inspection. "It's quite simple, darling. You load, you cock the hammer–" the gun clicked "–you aim at some lowlife trying to kill your fated, and you shoot."

"How are you here?" Alec asked, trying to ignore how uncomfortably attracted he was to Magnus handling guns like that. "You're– I haven't– I don't understand."

Magnus blinked. "Dear me, Alexander, is this a bit of a shock? Do you need to sit down?"

"What are you doing here? Did you know I was here?"

"No," Magnus said, with a laugh. "I didn't realise it was you, I'm afraid, until you said my name. Call it instinct, saving your life. You're welcome, by the way."

"Thank you," Alec said, automatically, and Magnus laughed again, swirling his gun around his fingers carelessly. Alec swallowed.

"It has been rather nice, I have to say," Magnus mused, "being able to recall your name, and your face. Well. Mostly recall your face. It'd be nice to remember a little more."

Alec exhaled heavily, letting himself lean back against the wall, and his eyes fluttered closed. "I'm supposed to be taking Lydia to some ball, I'm not supposed to be out here at all. My mother is going to kill me."

"That doesn't sound particularly good, after I went to such effort to rescue you." Magnus tutted, and Alec felt him moving in closer to trail fingers along his jawline. "Look at you, all respectable. Just like always, I seem to remember." Magnus chuckled. "Hm, I like this bit. When all those evasive memories solidify so I can remember you better."

"Better by the minute," Alec murmured in agreement. "I still don't understand. What are you doing here? It's late."

"Yes, my darling, but I'm fairly sure I just proved myself more than capable of looking after myself." He shoved his revolver under Alec's nose, and Alec didn't have much choice but to open his eyes and look. "Three men, three bullets. My aim is perfect." He frowned. "I was slightly concerned one of those morons would shoot a bullet that rebounded off the wall and hit you, though."

"I'm bloody glad they didn't," Alec told him. "How are you such a good shot, anyway?"

Magnus shrugged. "I lead a double life."

Alec started to laugh, but he caught the unyielding, humourless expression on Magnus' face, lips folded into a thin line, eyes frigid, and the sound died abruptly in his throat.

"You, uhm." He coughed. "You're serious?"

Magnus inclined his head, the fingers of one hand stroking up and down the barrel of his revolver like it was a cat. The muzzle had blood on it, Alec noticed, as though it had been slammed into someone's face.

Head spinning, Alec said, "So you're- You're- What? Part of a gang? A criminal?"

The corners of Magnus' lips twitched, but his eyes didn't soften. "I prefer the term assassin."

The breath left Alec's lungs in a whoosh, and he stared at Magnus with wide eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Perfectly." He cocked his head to one side, surveying Alec with unnerving intensity, unblinking. "Are you going to scream murder, now?"

"No." Alec choked out a laugh, cheeks flushing in the dark, and looked down at where Magnus was still caressing his gun, thumbing off drying drops of viscous crimson. "No, but it says something really terrible about me that I find you with that gun so attractive."

A coy little smile crossed Magnus' face. "I only kill the bad people, if that helps your conscience at all. I try not to make a habit of killing unless absolutely necessary."

"A vigilante?" Alec raised an eyebrow. "My mother will be beside herself. She might even disown me."

"You don't look too bothered by the concept."

Alec shrugged. "Why not? I'll train as your apprentice and learn how to look nearly as sexy using one of those things as you do."

The grin that spread across Magnus' face at Alec's joke was utterly unreserved, and it made his eyes shine with unadulterated pleasure.

"I'd be happy to teach you, darling," he said, holding the gun up in between them with two fingers.

Alec groaned softly. "Don't give me ideas."

Magnus fluttered his eyelashes, twiddling the revolver, a faux innocent expression on his face. "Ideas? I would never."

"Good god, shut up," Alec whispered, and, latching both hands into the lapels of Magnus' jacket, yanked him forward into a kiss.

The clatter of metal against stone met his ears, and Alec spared a mere second to be concerned that the gun would go off at being dropped to the ground so callously, but then Magnus' lips parted, and he didn't have space in his mind to think about anything except how good it was to kiss him, for the first time in this life.

"Alexander," Magnus gasped, as they parted momentarily, before he fell back into the kiss, winding his arms tight around Alec's neck. He pressed him back against the wall, bodies flush together, and Alec couldn't help but let out a soft moan when Magnus nipped at his lower lip and trailed devilish fingers beneath his long formal jacket, over the thin material of his shirt.

The sensation of Magnus' body heat rolling off against his was addictive, the slide of wet lips enticing, stoking a fire in Alec's gut that he hadn't realised had ever been lit. He dug his fingers into Magnus' biceps - and Jesus, what had he done to deserve _that_? - and gasped out hot breaths that were swallowed by Magnus' kisses before they had time to float into the damp night air.

Time seemed immeasurable as they stood in the alleyway, a gun discarded on the floor and blood washing against the cobblestones with the rainwater, arms wrapped tight around each other and mouths slipping together.

"Shit," Magnus breathed, lips dragging against Alec's jaw as he broke their kiss, both of them panting against each other. His eyelashes fluttered against Alec's cheek. "God, that was one hell of a first kiss."

"Be an assassin more often," Alec said, voice gravelling, breaking halfway through his sentence. He cleared his throat, and felt Magnus chuckle where he had his nose skimming along Alec's jawline, nudging at the hollow behind his ear. "It's sexy."

"How old are you?" Magnus murmured, lips pressing lightly against the vulnerable skin of his neck.

"Thirty-one," Alec told him, slitting his eyes open to look at the top of his head. "Why?"

Magnus shrugged. "I couldn't decide whether you seem more grounded because you're older, or because we both remembered more, this time."

"Both." Alec pulled back so he could meet his fated's eyes. "And the gun. The gun helped any existential crises that might have otherwise occurred. Specifically you with the gun."

Magnus smirked. "I think you had a slight crisis over your apparent gun kink, sweetheart."

"Shut up," Alec said, eloquent as always. "Shouldn't we go before someone comes to arrest you?"

Magnus shrugged. "I have people on the inside looking out for me, and I have people who clear up if I call. I can put out a message. Don't worry, darling." He bent down to snatch up the revolver laying innocently on the floor, droplets of rainwater rolling down the smooth metal of the barrel and onto Magnus' fingers. "Nobody will know we were here."

Magnus winked at him, held out his free hand, and Alec knew his was damned to hell when he took it and pressed their palms together, but frankly? He didn't give a damn.

***

5.

_1944, New York_

Magnus had a headache.

It wasn't an uncommon occurrence, working in a hospital during arguably the deadliest war the world had ever seen, but it was particularly aggravating him today. He'd already had three soldiers home from war tell him that they refused to be treated by him because he wasn't white, and one of them had died of infection consequently, because there weren't enough doctors for people to be picky.

And now, of course, he had to have himself landed with a lieutenant, who, even if not a racist bigot, would undoubtedly be brash, and hyper-masculine, and difficult, and generally drive Magnus up the fucking wall.

"Bane!" Dr Garroway hollered, from where he was up to his elbows in blood digging a week-old bullet out of some poor soul's leg. "No dawdling!"

Magnus inhaled, because he liked Luke, and their boss didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his shitty mood today. "Yes, sir."

He strode to the end of the row of beds, and yanked back the curtain shielding the lieutenant - who, on his sheet of patients, had no name written down - without ceremony. Better to get it over with fast. If he started the consultation taking none of the man's shit, maybe they could end it without Magnus wishing desperately to slam his head against a German Luftwaffe.

"Lieutenant, I'm Dr Bane, and I'm here to treat you today," he said, and then blinked, stilling, when the man lifted his head up to look at him with blank eyes. "Oh. I- I don't..."

Because there, right in front of him, was Alexander Lightwood, tall and muscular and covered in blood that really should have been cleaned off already. His usual mop of dark hair had been cropped short, and his eyes were oddly lifeless, seeming to stare through Magnus instead of at him.

 _Shell shock?_ Magnus wondered, horror constricting his heart in a vice-like grip as memories began to assault him, just like they always did when he met his fated for the first time in each cycle. The intensity was less, each time, because, each time, he remembered more from Before already, without having to meet Alec.

"Alexander," Magnus said, and reached behind him to pull the curtain back across with considerably more care than he'd opened it with. "Alexander, it's me. It's Magnus."

He approached the bed slowly, hesitantly, and he wondered, in some distant corner of his mind, whether he'd sinned one too many times in his cycles, and was going to sit and watch his fated die immediately upon meeting him.

When he rubbed his fingertips against the soulmark on his wrist, he felt that they were trembling lightly, more with every passing moment of silence.

"Alexander," Magnus whispered, and his voice broke, throat tightening. "Darling."

Alec blinked, once, and then three times, rapidly, eyes shifting strangely, before they settled where Magnus was standing, reaching out towards his fated with one hand.

 _Oh_. Magnus' lips parted as he observed Alec's movements. _Oh_.

"Magnus?" he croaked, as though he hadn't used his voice for days. "Where— I can't—"

He hadn't needed the confirmation, but Alec speaking the words branded onto his wrist in such a small, ruined voice broke the dam, and every instinct he'd been forcing back burst forth.

"Oh, god, I'm here, darling," Magnus said, and rushed forward, grasping the hand Alec had stretched out in his, folding his fingers around Alec's paler ones. "I'm here, it's alright, I've got you."

Alec reached for him with his other hand, and Magnus wasted no time wrapping him in a hug, warm and tight. A sob that tore at Magnus' heart escaped from Alec's lips, and he tucked his face into Magnus' neck, shaking all over.

"It's alright," Magnus whispered, against his hair, rocking them slowly. "It's alright, Alexander."

"Magnus. I– Oh, god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shhh," Magnus soothed him. He rubbed his hand against Alec's back gently. "Shhh, darling, don't apologise."

Alec's sobs, painful and heart-wrenching, began to cease after a few minutes, softening off into uneven breaths, and then calming further under Magnus' determined gentleness.

Once Alec's breathing was even, Magnus began to loosen his grip, so he could slip back to do his job and make sure Alexander was okay.

The moment he did, however, Alec fisted his hands in Magnus' coat, and said, "Don't go. Please don't go."

"I'm not," Magnus assured him. "I'm just going to have a look at you, alright? I'm a doctor. I want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm not," Alec whispered. "You know I'm not, it's obvious, I- I can't _see_ , Magnus."

"I know." Magnus' voice was gentle, and he carded fingers oh-so-carefully through Alec's hair, mindful of the fact that he must have suffered head trauma recently. "I realised, darling. But just let me take a look, yeah?"

Alec nodded in acquiescence, and then said, "Just promise me you won't go anywhere. Not being able to see is terrifying, and—"

"I promise." Magnus pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'm right here. Now, can you see my hand in front of your face?"

Alec squinted visibly, and then said, "No."

"Now?"

"I can see a darker shape."

Magnus continued, with different objects and different colours and different angles, until it became fairly clear that Alec had damaged his occipital lobe in whatever explosion he and his men had all been in, with significantly worse damage on one side than the other.

"Alright," Magnus said, as he switched off the light he'd been using to check Alec's pupil reflex and began to put away his things. "I'm not a vision expert, so I'm going to ask Dr Garroway to take a look at you, but I think you've got something called cortical blindness. The prognosis is actually better than you might think. As the swelling around the damaged brain tissue goes down, you should regain some vision, but I can't say how much. You've got better vision in your left eye, right?"

"Yeah."

"That's what I thought." He finished clearing up, and sat back on the side of Alec's bed. He was about to take his fated's hand, when he thought better of it. Not wanting to startle the poor man, he instead said, "I'm going to touch your hand, okay?"

"Okay."

Magnus twined their fingers together, and gave Alec's hand a squeeze. "I'm going to call in Dr Garroway, if he's not busy, because he knows more about brains than I do, and then, if he agrees it's appropriate, I'm going to help get you somewhere more comfortable. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Alec agreed. He had his eyes closed, like he had when Magnus had walked in, and Magnus wished, selfishly, that he'd open them again. "Do you, um. Are you a heart specialist?"

Magnus blinked. "Cardio-vascular, yes. How on earth did you know that?"

He shrugged. "Educated guess. Seems like a you thing."

Magnus smiled at him. "What a charmer," he said, teasingly. "I'm kissing you, and then I'm going to find Luke - Dr Garroway - unless you've got any objections."

A shy little smile stole across Alec face at that. He shook his head, so Magnus pressed a soft kiss to his lips, revelling in the feeling for a moment, squeezed his fingers once more, and then slipped out before anything could persuade him to stay.

Half an hour later, Magnus' initial assessment had been confirmed, with Luke predicting that Alec would regain all or most of his sight in his left eye, and get partial sight in his right eye (although exactly how much he couldn't say) and Magnus had been permitted to move Alec out somewhere quieter, and calmer. Magnus could only be relieved that Alec didn't have any worse injuries.

"There's a bed right behind you," Magnus said, as he backed Alec up slowly, hands on his biceps. "Or there's an armchair. Which would you prefer?"

"Bed." Alec's reply was immediate, and Magnus raised his eyebrows despite the fact that his fated couldn't see him properly - or, really, at all. Alec could probably make out a blurry silhouette, but that would be it. "I'm tired."

"Haven't you slept since you came here?" Magnus asked, then added, "Take a small step back."

Alec did so, and the edge of Magnus' bed hit the backs of his knees; he sat down, Magnus guiding him just in case, and exhaled softly.

"No," Alec said. "I couldn't sleep. It's like... I don't know how to describe it. Not being able to see. Being... _blind_. It's fucking scary. I can hear everything, and it seems so much louder, but I can't see it. I can't tell myself that all the strange noises I hear at night are nothing."

"I understand," Magnus said, gently. "Well, as much as I can. Patients have said that to me before."

"Will you..." Alec licked his lips, a sure sign of nervousness, and Magnus rubbed circles into his shoulder with his thumb in an attempt at reassurance. "Will you stay with me?"

"Tonight? Of course, darling. Luke told me he won't want me back until the morning, and said I would make sure you're alright."

"That's good. I— Yeah. Thank you."

After telling Alec of his intentions, Magnus let go of him, and moved across his room to the little bathroom in the corner. When the United States had first become directly involved in the war effort, Luke had allowed them all to stay living at home. But as things had progressed, and as the number of casualties streaming through their doors increased, he'd been forced to give them rooms on-site.

Frankly, Magnus was going to go over and shoot Hitler himself, if the chaotic destruction didn't end soon. He was quite sure he hadn't slept for more than five hours at a time for the last six months.

"It's cold," Magnus warned his fated, before pushing his hair back from his forehead and beginning to wipe off some of the dried blood covering his beautiful skin with the damp cloth. It was a sign of how overworked they all were, that nobody had properly diagnosed or cleaned up Alec in the days he'd been at their hospital.

Tension bled back into Alec's shoulders every time Magnus moved away to wash out the cloth at the sink; it eased out every time Magnus touched him again, and the sight made Magnus' heart ache painfully.

"There," he said, when he was done cleaning Alec's face and neck, and rubbing the worst off his exposed forearms. "You're all beautiful again now."

Alec huffed out a little laugh. "You're so full of shit, Mags."

And, oh, if that nickname didn't lighten the load on Magnus' shoulders infinitely. It reminded him of memories long forgotten and times written about in the history books, when they'd curled together in front of warm fires on cold evenings, sharing body heat and trading soft kisses. It reminded him of all the mornings they'd woken up together, Before, and migrated into each other's arms to murmur quiet good mornings. It reminded him of light teasing and easy, frictionless jibes and jokes that drew out laughs and gasps of mock indignation.

It reminded Magnus of all the times and all the ways he'd loved his fated, his Alexander, in previous lifetimes, and it made his heart swell with fondness, and with the hope that he'd be granted the opportunity to fall just as deeply and irrevocably in love this time.

"Nonsense," Magnus said. He'd been going for a scoffing, dismissive tone, but he was fairly sure the words sounded charged with the weight of emotion that had settled over him. "You're always beautiful to me."

A weak, helpless sound escaped from between Alec's lips. Long fingers snuck around his waist and pulled him close, and Alec leant forwards so he could bury his face in Magnus' stomach, inhaling deeply.

Magnus draped his hands gently around his fated's neck, and bent to press a kiss to his hair. "It's going to be okay, Alexander. I swear."

"What if I can never see you, Mags?" Alec whispered against his stomach, and pressed himself closer. "What if it's always like this?"

"Then you'll learn how to cope, and I'll help you," Magnus told him, firmly, but not unkindly. He refused to be pitying. Alec would hate living with Magnus' pity. "You're not alone in this. I've helped treat people who've lost their sight before. I can damn well help my soulmate."

Alec smiled a little, but it seemed halfhearted.

"But," Magnus continued, "you heard what Luke said. You'll get some of your sight back, at least. He thinks you'll get all or most of it back, in this eye." Magnus pressed his fingertips to the soft, vulnerable skin beneath Alec's left eye. "And at least some in the other."

"I don't know how to cope," Alec whispered, and tightened his grip around Magnus' waist. "Every time you let go of me, I feel like I've got nothing to ground me and anchor me to reality."

"Well, then, there's quite a simple, solution, isn't there? I won't let go of you. Not tonight, and not tomorrow night, and not the one after. Not until you're better—not until you feel safe. Whether that's because you've regained your sight or because you've got used to surviving without it."

"But you have to work. You can't just look after me. And I wouldn't want you to."

"Don't frown, sweetheart," Magnus said, running his knuckles across Alec's forehead. "I'll admit, that might be something of an issue, but I do sleep on a semi-regular basis, if a little sporadically. And we can always get you in with Clary. She works helping to rehabilitate people."

"Clary?" Alec raised his eyebrows, and tipped his head back to look up at Magnus. "Jace's Clary?"

"Yes, I think—" Magnus' cut himself off, and let out a laugh as realisation hit him. "Oh, god, Jace is your brother. God, how have we not met until now?"

Alec shrugged, a smile on his lips. "We've met now."

They were still talking an hour later, little tidbits of conversation interspersed with comfortable silence. Alec had his head resting on Magnus' chest, fingers tracing random patterns into his stomach, and the sheets were pulled up around them. It had long since gone dark, and Magnus had switched the lights off to let them sleep—not that they'd been very successful, so far, irrespective of how much they both kept yawning.

"Magnus?" Alec whispered, after a longer stretch of silence.

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

"Mm." Magnus curled his arm tighter around Alec's back. "You don't need to thank me."

"I do." He paused. "I can see why past me loved you so much."

"Aren't you full of sweet things?" Magnus murmured teasingly, and pressed a kiss to Alec's temple. "I can see why past me loved you, too, darling. And I'm going to fall in love with you again this time, sight or no sight."

***

6.

_1984, San Fransisco (during the AIDS epidemic)_

"There's one of your lot down in Q4, Alec," Dr Morgenstern said, a sneer to his voice. "You might want to take a look. It's pretty ugly."

Alec barely contained his eye roll. _His lot._ Honestly. "Thanks, Sebastian. I'll head over there in a few. I've got to finish plastering up old Mrs—"

"See?" Sebastian turned to one of the passing nurses, Raj, who blinked at being looped into the conversation, and frowned a little. "Even the gay doctor doesn't want to go anywhere near them. It's disgusting, is what it is, and I'm damn glad I don't have to deal with them. It's nature's way of saying no, after way too much complacency."

"I'm glad you see it that way." Alec voice was frigid, dripping with sarcasm, and he stared down Sebastian unblinkingly. "But I'm afraid I disagree with you. As a medical professional, you should be well aware of the fact that it's not a disease inherent to men who have sex with men, and you should most certainly be aware that it can't be transmitted through breathing the same damn air or brushing hands."

Raj's lips quirked up, and he ducked his head a little so Sebastian didn't see. He patted Sebastian's shoulder consolingly. "Shots fired. He's got a point, Doc."

Sebastian looked livid at Alec's words, but there wasn't much he could say to refute the statements—especially not when Clary was striding down the corridor, murder in her eyes as she stared at the blonde-haired doctor from the deepest pits of hell.

"Excuse me," Alec said, and winked at Clary when they passed each other. Of all their new recruits in the last few years, Clary was certainly one of his favourites, even if it had taken him a few months to warm up to her. Not only was she a fantastic doctor, but she wasn't at all concerned with treating AIDS patients.

_Unlike certain pigeon-livered ratbags._

"Hey, Alec?" Maia poked her head out of a cubicle, an empty syringe wrapped in plastic in one hand and a stethoscope in the other. "Morgenstern wasn't kidding. The guy in Q4 needs help. I left a clipboard in there with all his treatment history. He's been in three days, and Fray's been treating him."

"Alright. I'm on my way. Can you get an orthopaedic in for Mrs Blackthorn and give her some morphine?"

Maia agreed, like the wonderful, professional nurse she was, and Alec continued down the corridor to where there was, apparently, a patient in distress. He could only assume that it wasn't urgent, as nobody had flagged the case up over the coms, but with an AIDS patient, there was no telling what people would do.

It was disgusting, quite frankly. Alec knew people disliked same-sex couples, he knew people had turned their noses up at them all through history, making all sorts of outrageous claims despite the entirely natural soulmarks everyone carried, but this, this prejudice and judgement and disgust, took it to a whole new level. It made him sick.

Alec hummed to himself as he turned the corner. He picked up the clipboard hanging outside the enclosed area, privacy granted merely by a flimsy blue curtain drawn around the bed. He pursed his lips when he scanned down the diagnosis, and sympathy flooded through him.

God, he wished there were more they could do for all these poor people.

He pulled back the curtain gently, mindful of the fact that his patient could be asleep, and stuck his head round first.

A man was curled up on the bed, on his side, in a flimsy hospital gown that was tugging apart at the back, exposing a jagged mesh of old, long-healed scars on his back. Horror shot through him, fast and cold. Alec knew exactly what those scars were from. Beatings. Canes. The smack of a leather belt.

Alec stepped further into the little area, and pulled the curtain shut behind him. The man's hair fell across his face, lank and a little thin in places, and his chest rose and fell unsteadily. Pneumonia, just like Clary had written on his sheet.

"I'm not asleep," the man said, voice scratchy and croaky and painful, and—

_Oh, god, no._

No. It couldn't be. It wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't, it—

The man ( _it wasn't him, it wasn't, it couldn't be, it was a coincidence, that Alec had those words on his wrist_ ) tilted his head back, turning to look at Alec, and turned himself over so he was half on his back. He seemed to give up halfway, strength failing him, and he ended up with his torso twisted, shoulders flat on the bed and legs still sideways.

He blinked when he saw Alec, and his eyebrows lifted in a poor imitation of the snarky, expressive movement Alec remembered.

"Oh," he said, and smiled a little, sadness in his eyes. "Hello, darling."

Alec felt his heart break in two. Because Magnus—Magnus didn't look like _Magnus_. His face was devoid of make-up, haggard and tired and drained of colour, and his eyes lacked energy.

"I- I can't– I _can't_ ," Alec told him, and he felt his lower lip tremble as he took a step backwards, because he couldn't be seeing this. He couldn't. This wasn't true. This couldn't be what they got. This couldn't be real. This was a horrible, cosmic joke.

This couldn't be his Magnus. It just couldn't be.

"Alexander," Magnus whispered, and the devastation that stole across his face shattered the remaining pieces of Alec's heart. Because he'd done that. He'd backed away, and he was still shaking his fucking head, and the look of sheer heartbreak Magnus was giving him was killing him, but it was his own fault, it was his doing, his own stupid doing—

"Alexander, please."

Oh, god.

He blinked rapidly, tears pooling in his eyes and turning everything blurry. He lifted a shaking hand to rub away the evidence of the cataclysmic emotions churning inside him, and heaved in a deep breath.

Magnus was still watching him, staring with wide, frightened eyes. He was frightened of Alec. Frightened of Alec's reaction. Frightened of Alec backing out of the door and doing the unthinkable—rejecting their soul-bond.

"Shit," Alec whispered, more to himself than to Magnus. "Shit. I- I have to—"

"Alec," Magnus said, panic apparent in his voice as he reached a weak hand up, out towards him. "Don't go, please. Please, I– I'm sorry. You– I understand why you– Why–"

And then, to Alec's utter horror, tears welled in Magnus' eyes and streamed down his hollow cheeks, trickling down to the cut of his jawline. His shoulders shook silently, and he screwed his eyes shut as though he felt like blocking out the sight of his fated would block out the pain.

"No, oh god, Magnus, no," Alec choked out.

His feet carried him towards the bed immediately, and he braced a knee on the thin white sheets so he could touch Magnus' arm lightly. Because if there was anything in the world he'd been told by his parents he should seek to prevent, always, it was his soulmate being in distress.

God knew there hadn't been many good moral lessons his parents had taught him, but that one—that one Alec agreed with wholeheartedly.

"I'm sorry," Alec said, and rubbed Magnus' arm gently when he leant into the touch. It was so new, _Magnus_ was so new, and yet it was all so very, bone-deep familiar. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"I understand," Magnus whispered. "I'm infected. Nobody wants to touch me. God, nobody wants to breathe around me. And you're a doctor, you know how I got this. I don't blame you for hating me."

"No, come on." Alec's voice was gentle, but firm. "Don't be silly. I don't hate you. I don't think I could ever hate you."

"But—"

"Hey." Alec cupped Magnus' cheek in one hand, and ducked his head to look at him. "I'm not judging you. It's okay."

"I had sex, Alec." Magnus looked like he was about to burst into tears again, so Alec shifted closer, and rubbed his thumb across his fated's cheekbone. "I had sex with people who weren't you. I had sex with people and now I'm going to die."

_Fuck that._

"I don't care," Alec told him, honestly. "Have I cared Before?"

"Have you... What?"

"Before," Alec repeated. "Before, before this cycle, have I cared?"

"I don't..." Magnus frowned. "Oh, I _do_ remember. No. No, you didn't."

Alec smiled, gently, and said, "I'm not going anywhere, I swear to you. I'm a doctor. I know how HIV is contracted, and I'm not going to judge you for having it. Ever."

Magnus closed his eyes, and leant his cheek into Alec's palm. "Alexander?"

"Mm?"

"Can you just...lay here and hold me?"

"Of course," Alec whispered, while he felt his heart crumbling in his chest, his mind screaming and raging because this wasn't fucking fair. They both knew what Magnus meant. They both knew what was going on, with Magnus' ragged breaths and croaking voice and horrible lack of body weight. "Of course, Magnus. Always."

Magnus was asleep in Alec's arms when Clary came in to check on Alec's whereabouts, half an hour later. She frowned when he saw them, questions swimming in her eyes, and Alec tapped the inside of his wrist lightly. Understanding, quickly followed by sympathy so deep in made Alec's throat tighten, flashed across her face.

"I'll sign you off for the night," she said, quietly. "And tomorrow."

"Is, um." Alec cleared his throat when his voice broke. "Is Jace here?"

"Yeah, Alec." Clary smiled at him, a small smile tinged with overwhelming sadness. "He's here. Want me to send him in?"

"Not now. I just—" _I'm just going to need my brother, later._

"I understand," she said. "Goodnight, Alec."

Magnus shifted in his hold as Clary backed out, the rings of the curtains rattling slightly against the pole holding them suspended. He burrowed himself deeper into Alec's embrace, and then shivered, goosebumps rising across his sweat slicked skin.

However many times he'd seen the effects of AIDS taking hold, the horrific, sadistic nature of it hit Alec every time. There was no one thing. There was an immune deficiency, and a horrible, cruel array of consequences that devastated the sufferer. Pneumonia, and infections, and tumours, and fevers, and body temperature fluctuations that made people utterly miserable.

Seeing it happen to Magnus...

Alec swallowed, hard, because he wasn't going to cry. He wasn't. Not now. Not tonight. Not when his soulmate needed him.

Magnus shivered again, so Alec reached out grab his own discarded sweater to wrap it around Magnus, beneath the thin blankets provided on the bed.

"I've got you," Alec whispered, against his hair, and kissed his forehead. "I've got you."

Magnus clung on.

He dug his nails in, gripping and tearing at everything holding him to life. He buried his feet deep under in an attempt to anchor himself, and pushed himself, his body, to breaking point.

Alec found himself forcing back tears every time Magnus coughed and choked until he was spitting out blood, and as he rubbed his soulmate's back and soothed him, with words and touches and whatever medication helped.

(Not that the hospital had much to offer.)

"I've had enough," Magnus croaked, clinging to him, fisting both hands in Alec's shirt. "I don't want to do this anymore."

"It's alright." Alec held him tightly, pressing kisses to whatever bit of skin he could reach. "It's alright, Magnus."

"It's not. It's so unfair."

"I know." Magnus whimpered in pain, and any remaining composure Alec had disappeared as he pressed his face into Magnus' neck and let himself cry. "I know, baby."

Magnus clung on.

He clung on even when he told Alec he was done. He clung on even when he refused more medication, because it didn't help. He clung on even when Alec's voice faltered and failed him in the middle of some boring little anecdote about himself, his life, that Magnus had been lapping up for the last hours.

But even the strongest of trees could be uprooted, bowled over by the unrelenting power of storms.

And when Magnus crashed to the ground, leafs dropping and branches sagging, Alec muffled his scream into Magnus' still chest, and cried so hard he felt he was going to throw up.

His soulmark burned, charred and broken, a scar rather than a mark, but he didn't want to look. He refused to look. He couldn't. He wouldn't. If he didn't look, then it wouldn't be real.

But the pain was real.

And, even when warm arms came around him, blonde hair tickling his cheek and the soft voice of his brother murmuring in his ear, Alec didn't let go of his fated.

Because, frankly, he didn't know how to.

***

7.

  
_2017, Brooklyn, New York_

"Fuck!"

Alec tossed a balled up piece of paper across the room in frustration, pen clattering to the table. The paper landed beside all the others with a soft, rustling thud, and Alec glared at it as though it was at fault for all his literary difficulties.

God, how hard could it possibly be to describe a fucking kiss?

If he was being entirely honest with himself, Alec knew that were it any other kiss, he wouldn't have been so bothered. And, were it any other person reading what he'd written, they'd probably have been more than satisfied. But he couldn't get it right. It wasn't true to life, what he'd written. It didn't do the reality justice.

But then, no mere words could ever do the reality justice.

"This is bullshit," he muttered, and then cursed himself inwardly, because he lived alone, and he was talking to himself. Maybe he needed to invest in a cat.

A certain someone was rather fond of cats, after all.

His phone rang, and Lydia's name flashed up on the screen, snapping him from his beautiful - if somewhat wistful - thoughts about his fated.

"What?" Alec demanded upon answering, not bothering to reign in his rudeness, because Lydia gave as good as she got, and she was more than capable of dealing with his stupid ass.

"You've got a book signing tomorrow. I'm reminding you because you're notoriously terrible at remembering things when you get caught up in writing, and Isabelle tells me you haven't been out of your apartment in a week."

Alec rolled his eyes. "She doesn't live with me. She doesn't track my every movement. I went to the bakery, and the coffee shop."

"Oh? Well, Alec, congratulations on two external excursions in a week, that's, what, half an hour outside every three days? You've still got a book signing tomorrow, and you still have to be nice to your fans."

"I am nice to my fans," Alec argued, because this was a regular point of contention between them, and he still adamantly maintained that he was right. "I love my fans, because they're smart and enthusiastic and lovely. Half the people who turn up to book signings _aren't_ fans. Them, I don't like. They're annoying."

"They still pay you. Be nice," Lydia said, flatly, and hung up.

Alec stared at his phone in disbelief as he pulled it away from his ear, and then huffed. Well, if his manager was going to be so entirely unreasonable, that just meant he had more time to get this stupid scene right, and had to spend less time discussing how to exchange pleasantries with stupid people who turned up to book signings just to take selfies.

He glanced down at the open Starbucks app on his phone, and considered ordering an americano and going on another five minute coffee trip (Lydia's half an hour estimation had been a little generous), but then he glanced back at the enormous number of pages left in his manuscript that he needed to go through and revise, and decided that five minutes of inhaling polluted New York fresh air for a quick coffee wasn't worth it.

***

The book shop he was being stationed in for the book signing was a small, quaint little place with an adorable children's section that Alec had enjoyed taking his brother to, when he'd been a teenager and his brother had been young enough to still get that adorable, child-like wonder in his eyes at that many books presented for his choosing. Alec had spent many, many hours when he was in high school and college working in this library, stacking books and helping out customers and sometimes doing the children's reading on a Friday. It felt only right to have all his New York signings here.

He rushed in through the front door, phone pressed to his ear as Jace ranted to him about some asshole at work, and Alec made the appropriate humming noises. Usually, he prided himself on being an exceptionally good listener, but he knew Jace just needed to get it off his chest, and Lydia was going to chew his ass out, because—

"You're late," Lydia barked at him when he walked into the little meeting room that always smelt of coffee and chocolate biscuits. She had her arms folded, and she was drumming flaming red nails against her arm as she quirked an eyebrow at him. "And you're on the phone. I wonder why I bother with you, sometimes."

Alec held up his finger, an apologetic look on his face, and let Jace finish his rant before telling him that he needed to go. Lydia looked less than impressed.

"Sorry," Alec told her, sheepishly, and ran his fingers through his hair as he silenced his phone and tucked it away. "I got caught up. I didn't see the time."

Huffing, Lydia shook her head in clear despair. "I hope whatever it was was worth it, because we now haven't got time to proof read your speech. Which could have been proof read last week if you'd written it faster."

Because he was awful, and couldn't resist teasing her sometimes, Alec grinned at her. "What speech?"

Lydia's cheeks flushed red with indignation, and she looked like she was about to pop a vein. "Alexander Lightwood! Tell me you didn't. Tell me you—"

"I never write speeches," Alec said, and waved a hand. "Nobody out there wants to listen to me reading out some crap on paper. I wrote notes. I'm always spontaneous."

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose. "I preferred you four years ago when you hated public speaking with a passion and wrote every facet of your speech down in entirely unnecessary detail. You're going to turn me grey, Lightwood."

Despite Lydia's fears, Alec's talk went well, and he even managed to get a few laughs from the audience. When he took questions at the end, he was expecting the myriad of inquisitions into how his sexuality affected the process of writing a series of bestselling novels, but, to his very pleasant surprise, there were only a couple.

"Is there any new inspiration for your most recent book?" a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen asked.

Alec nearly laughed.

He'd first taken to writing when his soulmark had appeared at age fourteen, and memories of his past lives, especially those regarding his soulmate, had begun to manifest in his mind. Beautiful, maddening, utterly insane memories divulged themselves, so astoundingly evocative that sometimes he wondered whether he was dreaming the whole thing.

And he'd absolutely had to write them down. Finding the words to describe what he could see in his mind's eye continued to be his greatest challenge, but he'd never expected all those carefully constructed sentences to turn into such a successful novel. He'd certainly never expected to give up his job and take up writing full time.

"Pirates," he told the girl, because technically, it was true. The rest of his answer would be a lie, of course. "I saw a documentary about pirates - real pirates - and the plot developed around that."

"Pirates isn't that big a part of the book, though," she said, narrowing her eyes a little. "What about the rest?"

He shrugged. "Honestly? Inspiration comes from all sorts of sources. Google _brain idling_. It's very interesting. That's where inspiration comes from."

He finished taking questions, and then the library staff took over, thanking him for coming in, and he was ushered over to a table, where he'd spend the next two hours or so signing books until his hand fell off and his fingers ached.

About half an hour in, he found himself smiling gently up at a chatty lady of perhaps seventy, who was telling him how his books were helping her maintain a good relationship with her husband, who was suffering with the early stages of dementia.

(If there was one thing that never ceased to astound Alec, it was what a wide range of readers he'd managed to gain. He'd never written for an audience, he just wrote. But he got teenage girls and elderly ladies and men in their thirties.)

(Admittedly, he probably had a fairly large base of readers who were LGBT, although it had never specifically been his intention to attract that kind of audience. He certainly wasn't complaining about giving people like himself more books to read about people they could see themselves in, though.)

"It reminds us both of being young and in love," she said, bracing one hand against the table. "It's lovely to read, you know. You make it seem so personal. It's beautiful."

"Thank you," he said, genuinely touched as he finished signing her copy of his book, with a brief added message for her. "I hope you and your husband enjoy this one, too."

"We're halfway through." She smiled at him. "Thank you very much."

"You're more than welcome," he told her. She thanked him once more as she picked up her book, and then walked off in a manner far too sprightly for her age, and the next person in the queue stepped forwards as Alec reached for his water, and took a swig.

A book was set down in front of him by a smooth brown hand, and he flicked the front cover open. He was about to look up and offer a smile to whoever was in front of him, when he caught sight of the first page.

In his dedication, he'd written a somewhat cryptic message in a fit of mild drunken depression. He'd been in a bad mood, and had half a bottle of wine, and hadn't been able to stop thinking about the fact that he was steadily nearing thirty, and still hadn't met his fated in this cycle.

He'd ended up sending off his finished copy of the book to Lydia still intoxicated, with the dedication reading:

_To the man who chased pirates:  
Let's go and make some more adventures_

In the book in front of him, someone had changed the words to read:

_To ~~the man who chased pirates:~~ me  
Let's go and ~~make some more adventures~~ have coffee_

Alec gaped at the book for a long, long moment, wondering whether this was some kind of joke, and he'd look up to find some crazy fan who proclaimed to be his soulmate.

(He'd had someone try it, once, reciting the words on his wrist, but they'd been very, very female, so he'd had to attempt to let them down gently. He didn't want a repeat.)

Taking a deep breath in preparation, Alec chanced a glance up at whoever was standing in front of him, having defiled his book.

 _Shit_.

A tall, striking man with a smirk that managed to seem a little sheepish on his lips stood before him, dressed in _very_ skinny black jeans covered in abrasions, a silky maroon shirt, and a dark grey waistcoat that he managed to make look incredibly casual. He had his hair coifed up and streaked with brown and blonde, contrasting with the natural black, and Alec was certain Isabelle would have been jealous of how his make-up looked.

"Hello, darling," Magnus said, softly. "I'm sorry I took so long."

Alec's lips parted in sheer disbelief, and he felt his fingers trembling around the book. "M-Magnus? Oh my god, you're here. You're _here_."

He felt a smile stretch across his face, wide and bright and blinding, golden elation spilling through his veins and making his heart sing.

Magnus returned his smile, eyes softening as he took in Alec's face. "You have no idea how hard I've tried to meet you, Alexander. Ever since I read your books..." He trailed off, and smiled wryly. "I wanted to find you, but you're such a private person. It was very difficult."

"I can't believe you're here," Alec whispered, reaching out to touch the hand Magnus had resting on the graffitied surface of the desk. "God, Magnus, I- I don't even know what to say."

Magnus nodded at the book Alec was still holding in one hand. "Coffee?"

"Yeah." His voice was breathless, and he wanted to hate himself for it, but he couldn't, because he was looking at his fated, at _Magnus_ , and he didn't think he'd ever felt happier. "Yeah. Coffee sounds absolutely wonderful."

"My number is in the back," Magnus told him, and Alec flicked through to find a slip of paper with Magnus' elegant handwriting on it, his number in a glittery silver ink. "Call me?"

"How about..." He hesitated, and lowered his voice further. He was fairly sure nobody was listening, but he could see the woman behind Magnus getting impatient at how long he was taking. "Are you busy in, say, two hours?"

Magnus shook his head. "It's Saturday, darling. Of course not."

"How about I see you in Taki's café, then? You know the one?"

"Yeah." Magnus squeezed his fingers. "I'm a Brooklyn local of five years. I know Manhattan pretty well."

"We've been living in the same city for five years?" Alec was horrified. "And we haven't met until now?"

"But we have now," Magnus said, and yes, yes, that was true. So true it made Alec's heart flutter with nervous, excited anticipation.

He signed Magnus' book, with a heart and two kisses, and handed it back to him with a flush. Magnus chuckled.

"Oh, you're so precious, Alexander. I'll see you later."

Alec followed Magnus out with his eyes, and he'd deny that he checked out his ass until his dying day.

The rest of the book signing passed torturously slowly, and Lydia could barely get three words out of him about where he was rushing off to when he declined her offer of a quick drink with an apology and a hurried and incoherent explanation.

Magnus was already in Taki's when Alec practically ran in. He had headphones in, a long-finished coffee in front of him while he typed on a laptop, glancing occasionally between the screen and a pile of papers beside him. The sight made Alec's lips curve up, fondness shooting through him.

He fell in love with Magnus quicker every time they met. And, this time, he thought he might have reached the horrible, cliché stage of love at first sight.

"Hey," Alec said, touching his shoulder lightly to get Magnus' attention when he walked up.

Magnus looked up, and a smile broke across his face when he saw Alec. Alec's heart rate tripled. He pulled his headphones out, gesturing for Alec to sit down across from him.

"I bought you some more coffee." Alec slid a cup across the table, and bit his lip. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I guessed."

Magnus raised his eyebrows. "What did you guess?"

"Vanilla latte?"

"Oh, yes." Magnus beamed, and wrapped a hand around the cup immediately. "Perfect. Ooh, it smells so good." He blew across the top, and then took a sip, letting his eyelids flutter shut. "Thank you, Alexander."

"You're welcome."

After a few minutes of slightly stilted, awkward small talk, they managed to fall into fairly easy conversation, interspersed with a few moments of silence that were less uncomfortable and more an opportunity to gaze at each other across the table.

As they laughed about a story Magnus was telling about one of his clients (he was a lawyer, Alec discovered, with a love of fashion, and, funnily enough, books) Alec caught sight of Magnus' hand on the table, relaxed and loose and so, so tempting.

He slid his own hand across slowly, nodding and grinning as Magnus spoke, waving his other hand majestically in broad, sweeping motions, until their fingertips brushed. The flow of Magnus' speech faltered for just a split second, before he continued, pushing his own hand towards Alec.

Alec couldn't help but think about how ridiculous they were, sitting there slowly inching their hands together, until they were clasped gently. But it was nice. It was fun.

"I, um." Alec cleared his throat, and Magnus watched him with the utmost patience. "I don't mean this in a- in a pressuring way, or anything like that, but would you like to come back to my apartment?"

One corner of Magnus' lips curled up, a kind but teasing glimmer in his eyes. "Would I platonically like to come back to your apartment?" he queried. "I'm not sure platonic is quite what I was going for, you know..."

Alec groaned, and tossed his head back. "Magnus. You know what I mean."

"Do I?" Magnus' eyebrows tipped up in mock surprise. "I'm not sure I do. Enlighten me."

Glaring, Alec said, "I am asking you whether you'd like to come back to my apartment, and it is not a euphemism for _would you like to have sex?_ "

Magnus' enthusiastic agreement led to the two of them walking down the street with their fingers interlaced, swinging their hands back and forth between them as they talked, smiling and laughing and telling each other anything bizarre and random and wonderful they could think of.

"You know," Magnus said, conversationally, as Alec tried to unlock his front door with one hand so he didn't have to let go of Magnus, "I remember thinking once that as my memories of our pasts improve with each cycle, it would take the fun out of getting to know you, and falling in love with you." He smiled, beautifully. "But it's different every time."

"It is." Alec glanced over his shoulder as the door swung open. "You're so beautiful."

Magnus blinked, clearly taken aback, but his expression softened after a few seconds. "Thank you, my darling."

Alec felt himself flush at the pet name, and he tugged Magnus gently inside with an offer of another drink.

When evening rolled around, they paused in their comparison of their music (Magnus' on Spotify, Alec's on his iPod) and left a playlist on in the background that they both liked (it was Magnus', but Alec had pretty much all the songs) while they ordered pizza from the place around the corner.

They ate shoulder-to-shoulder on Alec's squishy, comfortable sofa, and ended up feeding each other bits of pizza.

"You've got—" Magnus touched Alec's jawline, and swiped his thumb across the very corner of his mouth to brush away flour. Alec felt his entire body heat up at the touch, and his cheeks flooded with colour. "You're so pretty when you do that," Magnus murmured, hand lingering on Alec's face.

Alec's eyelashes dipped as he blinked, rising again to stare at his fated, whose words he had marked forever on his wrist. "What, blush?"

"Mm." Magnus' thumb stroked back and forth, gently, and Alec found himself leaning into the touch. "You're gorgeous all the time, of course."

That only made Alec blush harder; Magnus chuckled lowly.

"Sweetheart, can I kiss you?" he asked, a smile still on his lips.

Alec felt his eyes flicker down to Magnus' mouth, involuntarily, and he jerked his head in a nod. "Yeah."

The kiss was warm, and soft, a press of lips against lips. Alec inhaled sharply, and exhaled in a slow, relaxed breath, melting into Magnus' touch; he lifted his hands up to wind his arms loosely around his fated's neck.

They pulled apart after a moment. Magnus rested their foreheads together, and sighed a happy little sigh of contentment that made Alec's stomach flip and flutter.

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to be in love with you by next week," Alec murmured, unable to quite see Magnus' face clearly at such close proximity so instead keeping his eyes shut as he revelled in the feeling of being so close to his soulmate.

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to be in love with you by next week, too," Magnus said, and a kiss landed on Alec's nose. "You're stuck with me."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

Magnus pulled back to smile at him, and then they fell together again. The kiss was firmer, this time, less tentative, more involved, mouths sliding together and lips parting and slipping over each other.

Alec pulled Magnus a little closer to him on the sofa, but the angle still wasn't quite right, wasn't quite perfect, and, without thought, he swung a leg over Magnus' thighs so he was straddling his hips.

"Is this okay?" Alec asked, breaking the kiss.

Magnus' lips were red, kiss swollen, his hair in slight disarray, eyes shining brighter than every star in the clearest night sky, and god, he was the moat beautiful thing Alec had ever seen.

"More than, Alexander," he said, and encouraged him back in with one hand on his cheek and the other on his waist.

Their kisses gentled, eventually, until they tapered off into nothing. Warm breaths intermingled, and Alec settled himself against Magnus, resting his head on Magnus' shoulder as his fated wrapped an arm tight and secure around his waist.

When Magnus asked if he could stay the night ("Not for sex, I swear, just to fall asleep with you") there was no way Alec could refuse. Not when it sounded so appealing.

They curled together in Alec's bed, beneath the sheets, warm against each other. Magnus tucked his head into the crook of Alec's neck, and they held each other close, both feeling safer, calmer, happier than they ever had.

"I'm so glad I met you, today," Magnus whispered against Alec's collarbone.

Alec ran his fingers gently through Magnus' hair, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'm so glad I met you all those years ago, and every time since."

Magnus smiled. "Me too."

"I want to spend every day I have left on earth with you, Magnus," Alec told him, softly, because it was too early - much too early - to tell Magnus he loved him. Even if he was pretty sure he did.

"And I, you, Alexander."

They kissed, soft and slow in the moonlight, warm palms on smooth skin, heartbeats thudding in synch, and soulmarks glowing with happiness as each soul found utopia in its matching piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, to the wonderful Malteser24:
> 
> This was part one of your birthday present. Part 2, is that I'd like to write something specifically for you. Prompt me! You're always giving me such amazing, fabulous little plot bunnies -- what would you like me to write? A one-shot, an extra from something else I've written, Malec, Lyzzy, a bit of both, another pairing entirely, fluff, angst -- anything you like. Just let me know. (And, no rush! Have a think <3)
> 
> Thank you to all of you for reading! Much love, and particularly love to everyone in London following the terrorist attack on Wednesday. The attack hit very close to home (literally, not metaphorically) for me, minutes away from where I was at the time, so I feel incredibly lucky to have been unaffected, but incredibly sad for those who lost their lives, and those families who've been damaged by the acts of a man who used his warped view of his religion as a pitiful excuse for needless, chaotic destruction.


End file.
